Erised
by Elantil
Summary: She was the girl who fought for house elf rights, the one that picked the ugliest cat in the shop because she didn't want it to be unloved, and if it gave her a twisted enjoyment to be the salvation to her once tormentor, she didn't show it. If saving him was saving herself as well, she didn't show that either. Implied Dramione, crossover, one-shot.


**Disclaimer:** **I don't own Harry Potter, if I did, there would have been changes. And last I check, I was not Neil Gaiman, neither do I have Neil Gaiman absconded in my basement, writing stories for my pleasure.**

 **Erised**

It had looked so unassuming; she had briefly thought it wasn't the real deal. But, of course, she wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she hadn't researched, tracked it down and made sure that this was it. This was IT. The book. She doubted that the proprietors of that seedy shop in the back alleys of Romania even knew what they had in their hands; if they did they wouldn't have relinquished it to her so cheaply. She wondered if this was how it evaded people, by looking so mundane — so _ordinary_ — that no one would even deign to give it a second look. She knew though, when she picked it up, that she had the right one in hand.

The Magdalene Grimoire.

She had heard rumours of what had happened the last time someone tried to use it, incorrectly. He had somehow summoned then imprisoned the wrong one. She'd heard too, of the consequence that befell his son in his stead. In short, death would have been preferable — the irony of it wasn't lost on her.

Whatever happened to the poor bastard would have been lesson enough for anyone, but she wasn't careless enough to err the same way his father did and she wasn't sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. She did her homework and she did it meticulously. She was the brightest witch of her age. She would succeed where the man failed.

The wards were in place, checked and double checked. Protective spells hummed around the circle meant to trap Death. She briefly wondered if this was considered hubris, to presume that a mere mortal could capture a personification of the inevitable and endeavour to bend said personification to her desires. She pushed all wayward thoughts aside before she could lose her nerve. It was too late to start second-guessing herself. Taking a deep breath, she cast the final spell.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Hermione stood stock still, afraid to move, just in case. Just in case of what? She didn't know. It wasn't as if Death was a frightened animal that she had to approach cautiously. She could feel disappointment lurking at the edge of her consciousness but she refused to acknowledge it. Acknowledging it meant she was accepting that this hadn't worked, that her efforts were all for naught. She couldn't do that to herself, couldn't do that to the memory of him.

So she waited, with this blankness in her mind that kept at bay the rebel thoughts of failure. Suddenly, with a rustling of cloth, there was someone there; standing in front of her, staring at her.

Gaze long into an abyss...

This wasn't how she expected Death to look like. Hermione had expected billowing robes, skeletal visages and a scythe so sharp it could slice air. What she hadn't expect was white blond hair and alabaster skin, healthier than she could ever recall him being. She choked back a sob. It seemed like a cruel joke. He, whoever he was, who looked so much like the reason for all of this, who couldn't possibly be alive. He smiled, a disconcertingly kindly grin that she had not seen on the real owner's face. It chilled her and she had a sinking feeling that she, like the fool magician from the rumours, had inadvertently called upon the wrong sibling. Judging by whose form it chose to take, she had a pretty good guess which one had answered her.

She doubled over before she really knew what was happening. The unexpected wretchedness of seeing him again, even a fake one, manifested physically like a stab through the heart. She clutched at her chest painfully, the other hand braced against her knee as she leaned heavily, gulping in air like she'd forgotten how to breathe.

She didn't know how long it took before she started to calm down. It felt long enough, though he said not a word throughout her mini panic attack. She daren't look up, at least not yet. Her courage had fled her the minute she laid eyes on him and she felt drained, helpless, hopeless.

History dictated that this couldn't possibly end well, but she had to try. She'd made it this far after all.

She raised her eyes to meet his, the only part of his countenance that he did not share with the real one, tawny and sharp like yellow wine as they were, and swallowed as his grin grew impossibly wider. He was beautiful, as he should be, but it was wrong. The colour was all wrong. She missed the grey.

They didn't understand why she'd fought for him. They saw him as scum, treated him like one. She'd been treated like that too, before, by him of all people. It only made the others think she was round the bend, but it was precisely why she had first picked up the unpleasant duty of defending him. She was the girl who fought for house elf rights, the one that picked the ugliest cat in the shop because she didn't want it to be unloved. If it gave her a twisted enjoyment to be the salvation to her once tormentor, she didn't show it. If saving him was saving herself as well, she didn't show that either.

Eventually though, it stopped being about duty or honour or principles and started being about a child soldier, just like she had been, just like they all had been; forced under dire circumstances, brought up by lies, branded like cattle. He couldn't fully comprehend what she went through but neither could she fully understand what it was like to share a home, what was supposed to be a sanctuary, with a psychopathic lunatic.

She should have known that he couldn't have emerged from it unscathed. She didn't even know why she had assumed him immune to it in the first place. She hadn't liked to think much about it. It took a long time for him to confess to her that he woke up screaming most nights. Some nights it was the memory of being tortured that shook him; others it was the memory of her torture that did. The guards just laughed, if he were lucky.

With her as witness, he started to fade away.

It was alright at first. She visited frequently, talked about his chances, talked about her strategy to get him out, talked about anything to distract him from his situation. But she could only do so much and her time away was longer than the times she was there. She didn't know what happened to him whenever she left — he was never forthcoming with the details — but she could tell from the way he flinched involuntarily at every unexpected contact that his hell hadn't ended when Voldemort died.

He grew thinner than she ever thought possible. When the 'gifts' left by his captors started becoming more visible and obvious, she had filed complaint after complaint, essentially shouting herself hoarse in an indignant corner while the powers that be diligently ignored her. Harry and Ron started tuning her out as well. It was difficult not to resent that. Until one day, her words and her presence stopped being enough.

His heart had simply stopped, they said. She knew better. She always did. And now here she was staring into an abyss that was steadily staring back.

"You call," he said in a voice that wasn't his at all. She realised with a start that she was already starting to forget how he really sounded like. "And I come."

"I wa-" she croaked, her voice strangled, and she swallowed as she tried again. "I was trying to summon Death. I don't believe you are... him."

Desire, and by now she was fairly sure that this was indeed Desire, looked rather put out at that and pouted. Hermione ached to reach out and touch that expression. She'd never seen it and she never will again. She clenched her fists. That was why she was here, she reminded herself.

"Why is it always my oldest sister that people look for?" It was a rhetorical question or at least she thought it was. One could never tell with these omniscient personifications. So she kept quiet, keeping her surprise at the word 'sister' to herself. Somehow, it seemed fitting to her that Death would be a she.

"Oh but there's a reason why I'm here," he said. "I'm always drawn to those who want. And you, my dear, want. Badly."

"I want... a person." She nodded at Desire, indicating his chosen form. "He's dead and I want him alive again. It isn't right, what they did to him. They shouldn't have even put him into that fucking hellhole. He was a child. It isn't fair." She stopped her passionate pleading abruptly, mouth shutting with an audible click, when she realised that Desire most likely did not care about her reasoning.

Despite that, Desire's yellow eyes seemed to brighten, his mouth quirked into an amused smirk. A pang went through her chest.

"Well, I can see why you wanted my sister then," he said. "That is definitely her domain."

"So you can't help me then?" she asked.

"Well..." He started then trailed off, dragging out that one syllable on his tongue. He levelled his gaze at her, scrutinising, as if she were a brood mare and he was a breeder weighing his options.

Hermione could feel her irritation rising. Why could they never be straightforward? Why did these immortal beings always like to make people jump through hoops before telling them what it was they knew? If Desire was going to persist in being this unhelpful then she was going to send him back to where he came from and try her hand again at Death.

"Not really. Like I said, it's her domain," he finally said. She'd almost deflate at that but quickly regain herself, thinking about her previous promise to seek Death out again should Desire fail to deliver.

"But," he said and she wanted to scream at him.

"But," he repeated, "my sister won't help either. She's too much of a stickler for rules to bend it for anyone. She even took our brother and my twin. Your chances are non-existent at best." Hermione fancied she had imagined the delighted malice in his tone, foolish as it was, but comfort was hard to find at the moment and she was sinking fast.

"You're better off appealing to Delirium, but I don't think you'd like what she'd do to you if she said yes," he added casually, chuckling to himself like the whole situation was _amusing_.

It hadn't occurred to her that this was a possibility, that Death, or well, Desire, could just... not help her. The book had stated that the spell was supposed to bend the captured Endless to her will, but it was rather obvious to her that Desire wasn't here because he was trapped. He was here to humour her, or possibly — and the likelihood of this was higher — to entertain himself. Was she even supposed to be able to summon an Endless? It was the first time a book had truly let her down.

 _Et tu, libro?_ Hysterical laughter bubbled inside her. Brightest witch of her age, attempting the impossible, which turned out to really be impossible after all; facing a being that wore a mien designed to mock and haunt her, betrayed by her once trustworthy books. All that stopped her from bursting out in wanton laughter was the thought that he'd affect a smug look at her predicament (even though that was more a _him_ thing to do than Desire) and she didn't think she could handle that. She'd likely want to punch him in the face if he did. That wasn't lost on her either.

"I can't bring him back to you," he said. She nodded, resigned, defeated, shoulders braced against the reality of those words.

"And neither would she," Hermione added, unhelpfully, but she felt the need to confirm it.

"No, she won't," he agreed. "But I can give you one night."

Her head snapped up so fast she feared she had whiplash. She looked at him incredulously. If this was a jest, then it was unnecessarily cruel — the second one of the day.

"You just said you can't bring him back to me." Try as she might, she couldn't quite keep the hope out of her voice. She should balk at how lively and suddenly enthusiastic he became with the notion. It felt too much like making a deal with the devil, but one night was more than she got a minute ago.

"I said I'd give you one night," he said, matter-of-factly. "I didn't say it'll be with him."

Hermione looked confused for a moment, then stiffened, her eyes widening.

"What?" She flushed, feeling the heat in her cheeks rising against her own will. It wasn't her most eloquent speech but she doubted she could give justice to the maddening thoughts flitting through her mind at the time.

"I told you, I'm drawn to those who want," he said. "And you wanted him. You want him so much, I can taste it." He practically purred the last bit causing her to take an unconscious step backwards. When he seemed to perk at that, she knew it had been the wrong move.

"Exactly. It's him I want, not you," she said, resisting the urge to back pedal as fast as she could from this stalking, irresistible creature. She didn't want to think about what would happen when he touched her, didn't want to think about what she would allow him to do.

"For tonight, I am him." He looked at her then, the way she'd pictured him looking at her after she got him out of there, after she put the pieces of him back together. Even if it was yellow instead of grey, the dilated pupils made it hard to tell the difference.

Lust, hot and heavy, oozed out of him and into her. Pleasure, unbidden, delicious, spiked up from her groin. Her nipples tightened and she moaned lowly. His mouth spread into a feral grin. Strange as it was to see that, dear god, she wanted to kiss that mouth. Kiss it till her lips swelled and bled, till he became the only thing she could taste. For tonight, he was Draco.

The moment that thought cemented into her head, Desire — no, Draco — had stepped forward. Slipping a possessive arm around her waist, he pressed her entire body into his. His other hand came up to tilt her chin up towards him. Seeing him shrunk into himself in those last few months, she'd forgotten how tall he was. Her heart clenched tightly. She'd forgotten a lot of things.

He must have seen the hesitation in her eyes. Seen the pesky memory of him, of the true self of his form, surfacing in her mind because he looked annoyed. Hermione thought that he looked remarkably like a spoiled child whose toy was being taken away. She wondered if anyone had ever rejected him and what happened to them if they did. His lips descended hungrily onto hers, wiping the errant thoughts from her mind and her world imploded.

Fireworks didn't even begin to convey it. She couldn't tell where her nerves began and ended. It was like they were all on fire; balancing precariously between delirious pleasure and blinding pain.

She couldn't separate this sensation from the image of him she held in her mind. There had only been one stolen moment, where she initiated it and he responded fervently. She had returned to it, fantasized about it enough, to have the memory of it all blown out of proportion from the actual experience. So she couldn't compare, not really. Even so... Even so... It wasn't right, it wasn't real, but it was all she had.

She screwed her eyes shut, tears running down her cheeks, imagining grey.

* * *

Hermione woke alone, keenly missing the warmth Dra- Desire had provided. She sat up slowly, the clothes that they had used as blankets slipped down to pool at her lap, leaving her bare chest exposed. She barely registered her current state of indecency, finding herself incapable of caring about something so incomparably insignificant anymore.

She stayed there, unmoving, as the soft morning light slowly crept over her. Her desire to be with Draco again gradually began to be replaced with a darker desire to see all those responsible for his death suffer like he did as the cold seeped into her bones and settled deep in her heart.

 **A/N: The companion piece is now up, The Sound of Her Wings.**


End file.
